Murder Is Announced (Miss Marple 5)

“What I feel is my own business.”

“It’s mine, too. I want to make you talk. I want to know what goes on in that quiet head of yours. I’ve a right to know. I have really. I didn’t want to fall in love with you. I wanted to sit quietly and write my book. Such a nice book, all about how miserable the world is. It’s frightfully easy to be clever about how miserable everybody is. And it’s all a habit, really. Yes, I’ve suddenly become convinced of that. After reading a life of Burne Jones.”

Phillipa had stopped pricking out. She was staring at him with a puzzled frown.

“What has Burne Jones got to do with it?”

“Everything. When you’ve read all about the Pre-Raphaelites you realize just what fashion is. They were all terrifically hearty and slangy and jolly, and laughed and joked, and everything was fine and wonderful. That was fashion, too. They weren’t any happier or heartier than we are. And we’re not any more miserable than they were. It’s all fashion, I tell you. After the last war, we went in for sex. Now it’s all frustration. None of it matters. Why are we talking about all this? I started out to talk about us. Only I got cold feet and shied off. Because you won’t help me.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Talk! Tell me things. Is it your husband? Do you adore him and he’s dead and so you’ve shut up like a clam? Is that it? All right, you adored him, and he’s dead. Well, other girls’ husbands are dead—lots of them—and some of the girls loved their husbands. They tell you so in bars, and cry a bit when they’re drunk enough, and then want to go to bed with you so that they’ll feel better. It’s one way of getting over it, I suppose. You’ve got to get over it, Phillipa. You’re young—and you’re extremely lovely—and I love you like hell. Talk about your damned husband, tell me about him.”

“There’s nothing to tell. We met and got married.”

“You must have been very young.”

“Too young.”

“Then you weren’t happy with him? Go on, Phillipa.”

“There’s nothing to go on about. We were married. We were as happy as most people are, I suppose. Harry was born. Ronald went overseas. He—he was killed in Italy.”

“And now there’s Harry?”

“And now there’s Harry.”

“I like Harry. He’s a really nice kid. He likes me. We get on. What about it, Phillipa? Shall we get married? You can go on gardening and I can go on writing my book and in the holidays we’ll leave off working and enjoy ourselves. We can manage, with tact, not to have to live with Mother. She can fork out a bit to support her devoted son. I sponge, I write tripey books, I have defective eyesight and I talk too much. That’s the worst. Will you try it?”

Phillipa looked at him. She saw a tall rather solemn young man with an anxious face and large spectacles. His sandy head was rumpled and he was regarding her with a reassuring friendliness.

“No,” said Phillipa.

“Definitely—no?”

“Definitely no.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Is that all?”

“No, you don’t know anything about anything.”

Edmund considered.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But who does? Phillipa, my adored one—” He broke off.

A shrill and prolonged yapping was rapidly approaching.

“Pekes in the high hall garden, (said Edmund)

When twilight was falling (only it’s eleven a.m.)

Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil,

They were crying and calling

“Your name doesn’t lend itself to the rhythm, does it? Sounds like an Ode to a Fountain Pen. Have you got another name?”

“Joan. Please go away. That’s Mrs. Lucas.”

“Joan, Joan, Joan, Joan. Better, but still not good. When greasy Joan the pot doth keel—that’s not a nice picture of married life, either.”

“Mrs. Lucas is—”

“Oh, hell!” said Edmund. “Get me a blasted vegetable marrow.”

II

Sergeant Fletcher had the house at Little Paddocks to himself.

It was Mitzi’s day off. She always went by the eleven o’clock bus into Medenham Wells. By arrangement with Miss Blacklock, Sergeant Fletcher had the run of the house. She and Dora Bunner had gone down to the village.

Fletcher worked fast. Someone in the house had oiled and prepared that door, and whoever had done it, had done it in order to be able to leave the drawing room unnoticed as soon as the lights went out. That ruled out Mitzi who wouldn’t have needed to use the door.

Who was left? The neighbours, Fletcher thought, might also be ruled out. He didn’t see how they could have found an opportunity to oil and prepare the door. That left Patrick and Julia Simmons, Phillipa Haymes, and possibly Dora Bunner. The young Simmonses were in Milchester. Phillipa Haymes was at work. Sergeant Fletcher was free to search out any secrets he could. But the house was disappointingly innocent. Fletcher, who was an expert on electricity, could find nothing suggestive in the wiring or appurtenances of the electric fixtures to show how the lights had been fused. Making a rapid survey of the household bedrooms he found an irritating normality. In Phillipa Haymes’ room were photographs of a small boy with serious eyes, an earlier photo of the same child, a pile of schoolboy letters, a theatre programme or two. In Julia’s room there was a drawer full of snapshots of the South of France. Bathing photos, a villa set amidst mimosa. Patrick’s held some souvenirs of Naval days. Dora Bunner’s held few personal possessions and they seemed innocent enough.

And yet, thought Fletcher, someone in the house must have oiled that door.

His thoughts broke off at a sound below stairs. He went quickly to the top of the staircase and looked down.

Mrs. Swettenham was crossing the hall. She had a basket on her arm. She looked into the drawing room, crossed the hall and went into the dining room. She came out again without the basket.

Some faint sound that Fletcher made, a board that creaked unexpectedly under his feet, made her turn her head. She called up:

“Is that you, Miss Blacklock?”

“No, Mrs. Swettenham, it’s me,” said Fletcher.

Mrs. Swettenham gave a faint scream.

“Oh! how you startled me. I thought it might be another burglar.”

Fletcher came down the stairs.

“This house doesn’t seem very well protected against burglars,” he said. “Can anybody always walk in and out just as they like?”

“I just brought up some of my quinces,” explained Mrs. Swettenham. “Miss Blacklock wants to make quince jelly and she hasn’t got a quince tree here. I left them in the dining room.”

Then she smiled.

“Oh, I see, you mean how did I get in? Well, I just came in through the side door. We all walk in and out of each other’s houses, Sergeant. Nobody dreams of locking a door until it’s dark. I mean it would be so awkward, wouldn’t it, if you brought things and couldn’t get in to leave them? It’s not like the old days when you rang a bell and a servant always came to answer it.” Mrs. Swettenham sighed. “In India, I remember,” she said mournfully, “we had eighteen servants—eighteen. Not counting the ayah. Just as a matter of course. And at home, when I was a girl, we always had three—though Mother always felt it was terribly poverty-stricken not to be able to afford a kitchen maid. I must say that I find life very odd nowadays, Sergeant, though I know one mustn’t complain. So much worse for the miners always getting psitticosis (or is that parrot disease?) and having to come out of the mines and try to be gardeners though they don’t know weeds from spinach.”

She added, as she tripped towards the door, “I mustn’t keep you. I expect you’re very busy. Nothing else is going to happen, is it?”

“Why should it, Mrs. Swettenham?”

“I just wondered, seeing you here. I thought it might be a gang. You’ll tell Miss Blacklock about the quinces, won’t you?”

Mrs. Swettenham d

eparted. Fletcher felt like a man who has received an unexpected jolt. He had been assuming—erroneously, he now perceived—that it must have been someone in the house who had done the oiling of the door. He saw now that he was wrong. An outsider had only to wait until Mitzi had departed by bus and Letitia Blacklock and Dora Bunner were both out of the house. Such an opportunity must have been simplicity itself. That meant that he couldn’t rule out anybody who had been in the drawing room that night.

III

“Murgatroyd!”

“Yes, Hinch?”

“I’ve been doing a bit of thinking.”

“Have you, Hinch?”

“Yes, the great brain has been working. You know, Murgatroyd, the whole setup the other evening was decidedly fishy.”

“Fishy?”

“Yes. Tuck your hair up, Murgatroyd, and take this trowel. Pretend it’s a revolver.”

“Oh,” said Miss Murgatroyd, nervously.

“All right. It won’t bite you. Now come along to the kitchen door. You’re going to be the burglar. You stand here. Now you’re going into the kitchen to hold up a lot of nit-wits. Take the torch. Switch it on.”

“But it’s broad daylight!”

“Use your imagination, Murgatroyd. Switch it on.”